


What's the Appeal?

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Asexual Character, Asexual Sherlock, Asexuality, Blow Jobs, First Kiss, First Time, Humor, M/M, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000, Wordcount: 1.000-5.000, Wordcount: Over 1.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-24
Updated: 2013-01-24
Packaged: 2017-11-26 19:05:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/653454
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Sherlock is more interested in John than sex, and John is game for an experiment.</p>
            </blockquote>





	What's the Appeal?

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [Porn Battle XIV](http://oxoniensis.livejournal.com/526639.html). Prompts: asexual, experiment, blow job.

Most of the time Sherlock doesn't talk about his own romantic inclinations (or pronounced lack of them). For years, ' _Not my area_ ' remains the most detailed information John has on the subject, long after Sherlock's not-quite-miraculous return from the dead. 

And not because John doesn't ask, though he mostly tries to keep his curiosity to himself. If Sherlock hasn't broached the subject, then really it's none of John's business—even if the world _does_ keep mistaking them for a couple. Even if John has long since given up on correcting everyone because on some level (one he's barely comfortable acknowledging, even to himself), they're right.

So all right, sometimes John asks. Because he's curious, and because Sherlock is _his_ (his _what_ exactly, John doesn't know, but _his_ just the same), and because sometimes John gets just a little confused at the way Sherlock looks at him. He doesn't think he's projecting. Sherlock has always looked at him a little strangely. A little too intensely (when he's bothering to notice John at all). It's just that, until recently, John did his best not to notice.

Even when John asks relatively direct questions, Sherlock usually shrugs and brushes him off. Like the topic is of so little importance he can't be bothered to answer, and he'd just as soon John didn't waste his time with trivialities. 

It's as though romance (sex), is so far off his radar it doesn't even bear discussing. 

Gradually John has come to accept this attitude as an answer in itself. 

 

It's Sunday morning, almost exactly like the Saturday morning before, and John can hardly be blamed for not instinctively following Sherlock's meaning when he abruptly turns to John and says, "I've simply never understood the appeal."

"Sorry, what?" John's not actually paying attention to Sherlock. He's staring at his laptop, sorting through his overflowing inbox with the unhurried disinterest of an idle Sunday morning. 

"Dating as a precursor to sex."

Fortunately, John is so accustomed to Sherlock's apparent non sequiturs that he has no trouble taking the abruptly offered topic in stride. 

"Because courtship rituals are stupid?" He's still blinking at his screen, his arms crossed on the table in front of his keyboard, his posture slouching. Without turning to his right, he can picture Sherlock's look of pensive exasperation with alarming ease.

"That," says Sherlock. "And because sex is such an incomprehensible aim to strive for."

John sits up a little straighter, interest piqued. He hazards a glance and finds a different expression on Sherlock's face from the one he expects. Less dry exasperation at the foibles of humanity, more heavy consideration. He sits with rigid posture at one end of the couch, and his eyes are on John, like he's impatient for a second opinion.

"You think sex is incomprehensible," John echoes, weighing the idea and finding it difficult to wrap his head around.

"John, if you're going to participate in this discussion, I would appreciate if you could confine yourself to useful contributions."

"Sorry. Let me try again. _Why_ do you find sex incomprehensible?"

Sherlock gives him a dry, disappointed look.

"Don't look at me like that. It's a legitimate question. Some of us happen to enjoy sex quite a lot."

"Evidently," Sherlock, murmurs, steepling his fingers in front of his mouth.

"But you don't," John presses. It's not quite a question, since Sherlock has already given him the answer. Not just in this conversation, but in all the years they've known each other. John has dated enough women that he can't count them on all his fingers; he's been engaged twice. He's even been married, briefly and disastrously. In all that time he's never known Sherlock to invite anyone to his bed, or to follow anyone home (stalking someone for a case doesn't count). 

"Tedious." Sherlock waves a dismissive hand. "I can barely tolerate _speaking_ to most people for more than three minutes. Why would I want to waste the time required for copulation?"

When he puts it that way John can't really fault his logic. Picturing Sherlock and sex in the same thought requires a bit of paradoxical imagination (though John would be lying if he said he hadn't imagined it, just the same—living with Sherlock gives one almost limitless patience for mental exercise). If Sherlock doesn't like people with their clothes on, why would he like anyone naked?

John is surprised at all this unexpected openness. It doesn't feel like a confession, but it's more than Sherlock usually shares on the subject. He wants to ask Sherlock what brought this on, but he's half afraid of breaking the spell.

"Your email," Sherlock says.

"What?" John blinks in open confusion. The corner of Sherlock's mouth twitches, the only visible proof that he's being deliberately opaque. He's vexing John on purpose, and amused with his own success.

"You were deleting spam from your inbox," Sherlock explains, expression neutral apart from the self-satisfied sparkle in his eye. "One such message related to an online dating service. You briefly considered clicking the link."

John doesn't bother asking how Sherlock knew. Maybe he clicks at a faster rate when he's purging spam; a pause could mean something has caught his eye. Maybe a particular expression on his face gave away what sort of email had tripped him up. John hasn't dated much of late. It's come to seem unnecessarily complicated—though he'll never admit to his mad, brilliant flatmate that Sherlock himself is the reason things are in such a muddle.

The reason he didn't click the link, the reason he never seriously considers creating a profile on one of those sites, is simple pragmatism. His relationships have a particular track record. And much as John enjoys a woman's company (much as he loves sex), it's hard to seriously consider taking someone out, looking for a deeper connection, when any relationship he might find is preemptively fucked on account of Sherlock.

He'll never say any of this aloud. Sherlock would either take offense or be unbearably smug. John doesn't fancy dealing with him either way.

"I'd try it, you know," Sherlock interrupts John's reverie. "But only with you." 

John's thoughts screech to a jarring halt, as he follows the meaning of Sherlock's words to a completely impossible conclusion. It sounds like—

It can't be, but it _sounds_ like—

It sounds like Sherlock just propositioned him. But John can't have heard right. Weren't they just discussing how tedious Sherlock finds the entire concept of sex? Incomprehensible, he called it. 

John has probably been more confused than this at some point in his life, but at the moment he can't think when. 

"Are you talking about...?" John tapers off, vexed and strangely helpless. If he's misunderstood, he doesn't want to say it aloud.

"I'm talking about sex, John." Sherlock's eyes are sparkling sharply now, amusement and something else, something almost hopeful. 

"But you just said..." John hedges, then trails to silence again. Sherlock just said a lot of things. 

"Yes. But as I'm sure I have informed you in the past, you are not 'most people'. Surely I can trust you to bring some fraction of a rational brain to the table. If the experience bores me, I won't hesitate to say so; we'll consider it an experiment." Sherlock pauses pointedly, then adds, "Assuming you're interested."

John doesn't even consider denying his interest. He's not that much of a hypocrite. As closely as Sherlock watches him, he must know John has thought about it. John has an ambitious faculty for fantasy, and Sherlock is gorgeous. Straight or not, there's no point pretending he doesn't look at Sherlock that way—more and more often as time passes without pulling them from each other's orbit.

"How should we— That is... When would you like to...?" He doesn't want to seem _too_ eager, but already his face is heating, his pulse is picking up, he's wondering how Sherlock feels about kissing—

Then, abrupt as daylight emerging from heavy cloud cover, Sherlock smiles. He stands, crosses the room with long strides, and closes the laptop with a click. His hand is still braced atop the computer when he leans down and presses his mouth to John's.

Sherlock kisses with focused precision. If John had to guess, he'd say he's _not_ Sherlock's first, but he wouldn't stake his life on it. 

It's over too quickly.

John's eyes follow when Sherlock retreats. John's mouth hangs agape. He shouldn't be this stunned; it was just a kiss. John finds himself suddenly, utterly distracted by the narrow line of Sherlock's neck visible between the unbuttoned edges of his collar. 

"Now is a good time, I think," Sherlock says with a smirk.

John doesn't say anything at all for a moment. When he does, all he manages is, "Right. Okay."

Then he follows Sherlock up the stairs and into John's bedroom, half convinced this is a vivid hallucination. But Sherlock's hands are cool and solid on his skin—framing his face, sliding into his hair—Sherlock's mouth warm and welcoming and undeniably real. 

He's surprised at how impatient Sherlock is with their clothing—like he's personally affronted at all the buttons and zips and fabric—like now that he's decided he wants to see John naked, he takes umbrage at any hindrance to the immediate goal. They're both undressed in record time, and John can barely think through the hammer of his pulse in his ears.

John goes down on Sherlock first. 

He's given very few blow jobs—three, actually, though the details on two of them are a little fuzzy—so he's not exactly confident in his skill. It doesn't help that, though Sherlock gets hard from John's efforts, it's not long before he announces that that is _quite_ enough and it's his turn.

"But you haven't even—!"

"Irrelevant," Sherlock informs him blandly. "I usually don't." And John realizes he can picture it easily: Sherlock masturbating, losing interest somewhere short of the finish line, remembering an experiment in progress or an argument he was having on the internet. Strange to think it, but the realization takes away most of the sting of embarrassment John feels at being interrupted.

And then Sherlock's mouth is on _him_ , lips sliding quickly—almost greedily—down the length of John's cock. Christ, it's good. Slick heat, no hint of teeth. There's something almost mechanical in Sherlock's movements at first, as he bobs down, takes John deeper—something gauging and curious. 

_Experiment_ , John thinks, then groans as Sherlock does something especially clever with his tongue.

When he opens his eyes, Sherlock is looking up at him as if to ask, ' _again_?' Then he repeats the trick, and John throws his head back on a long, low moan. He doesn't need to answer the wordless question. His body is answering for him, trembling heat as Sherlock's mouth moves on him, Sherlock's hands touching him everywhere.

He doesn't last long. Partly it's simply time (it's been too long since John had someone else's hands on him, let alone someone else's _mouth_ ) and partly it's the surreal, impossible fact that the hands and mouth belong to Sherlock. John has fantasized, certainly. But he's never given himself over to serious thought. He's completely unprepared for the reality of Sherlock Holmes in his bed. John's chest feels tight and hot, and he barely remembers to warn Sherlock before he comes.

Sherlock pulls off at the last instant, and John's eyes are closed but he can picture it vividly—Sherlock watching closely, incapable of witnessing an orgasm without cataloguing the minutest biological response. For some reason, the image sets John off all the harder; it feels like an eternity before he comes back down.

He drops back on the bed after, boneless with satisfaction, eyes still closed. Smiling at the imagined picture of Sherlock's smug expression, he opens his eyes and finds a different expression entirely on Sherlock's face. Warm and pleased and (John has to look twice to be sure) fond. 

Later, John learns that Sherlock likes to cuddle. John's got his arms full of consulting detective, surprised at how much heat Sherlock's lean body gives off. He could definitely get used to this.

"Yes," Sherlock says, as though reading his thoughts (though John knows better, knows it's nothing so mundane as telepathy). "We'll have to do that again sometime."

John hums agreement and tucks Sherlock tighter against his chest.


End file.
